Volume Three—Chapter Two.
Miss Clode Feels that she has done Right.
“The woman is mad,” said Richard Linnell, with a pitying look, and he made a movement as if to leave, but she caught his hand.
“Pray—pray stay,” she whispered, “and let me—let me speak.”
“Well, speak,” he said, in a low, angry voice, “but be careful of what you say.”
“It is for your sake,” she whispered. “You do not know what I do. It is my lot to hear and see so much. I only want to take the veil from before your eyes.”
“If it is to blacken some one whom I respect—”
“Whom you love, boy, with a foolish, insensate love. It is to save you from misery that I speak.”
“To tell me some vile scandal that I will not hear,” he cried.
“That you shall hear, if I die for telling you, boy,” she cried, catching his wrist with both her hands. “Strike me if you like. Crush me if you will, but you shall hear the truth.”
“The truth—what truth, woman?” cried Richard indignantly.
“The truth about—”
“Hush! you shall not speak her name,” cried Richard furiously.
“It is enough that you know,” said little Miss Clode quickly. “Boy, boy, place your affection elsewhere, and not upon a woman who is about to elope to-night.”
“It is not true,” he cried furiously, “and I am a weak fool to stay and listen to such calumnies.”
“It is true,” said Miss Clode; “and it was to save you from the misery of discovering all this that I made up my mind to tell you.”
“To have the pleasure of retailing this wretched scandal,” he retorted scornfully. “Woman, you disgrace your sex by calumniating a sweet, pure woman.”
“It was to save you agony and despair,” she said piteously. “You might never have known of this. People work so slyly, and in such secrecy; and if you only knew how jealous I am of your future, you would not speak and look at me so cruelly as you do.”
“Stop!” cried Richard fiercely. “It was you sent me that wretched anonymous letter once?”
“Yes,” she said humbly—“to save you from misery—to open your eyes to the truth.”
“To open my eyes to a lie,” he cried. “Miss Clode, enough of this. I promised you that I would look upon this as our secret: let it remain so, and we know each other no more.”
He moved towards the door, but she clung to his wrist.
“That was a mistake,” she panted; “but this time I am sure.”
“I will not listen,” he cried. “Loose my wrist, woman.”
“You shall listen,” she cried. “Richard Linnell, the post-horses are ordered, and Claire Denville leaves her home to-night with—”
He did not hear the rest, for he had reached the shop, and hurried away, nearly overturning Annie, as she came in to find her aunt in tears.
“Oh, auntie, what is the matter?” she cried.
“Look here,” whispered Miss Clode, “are you sure there was no mistake in what you told me to-day?”
“Quite sure, aunt dear. Jane Moggridge told me that there were post-horses ordered for Major Rockley, and for Sir Harry Payne, and for Sir Matthew Bray.”
“That will do,” said Miss Clode quickly. “Now go right away.”
Annie looked wider-eyed and rounder-faced than ever in her disappointment as she obeyed her aunt, while Miss Clode stood with her hands clasped to her side, gazing straight before her.
“Have I done right?” she said to herself; “have I done wrong? It maddens me to see him so deceived—so blind. It was my duty to awaken him from his miserable infatuation, but suppose mischief should come after it?”
She turned ghastly pale, and clutched at a chair.
“No, no,” she cried, as she battled with her fears; “he is too brave and strong, and he will have Mellersh on his side. I have done right, I am sure. It is half breaking his heart, poor fellow; but better the sharp pain now than one that would last for life.”